


In the Manner of Ulysses

by MerryArwen (lalaietha)



Series: Clever Woman, Doctor's Wife [10]
Category: Sherlock Holmes (Downey films)
Genre: Other, back from the dead
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-11-22
Updated: 2012-11-22
Packaged: 2017-11-19 06:01:53
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,493
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/569986
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lalaietha/pseuds/MerryArwen
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In which it is discovered that the Falls did not kill Sherlock Holmes</p>
            </blockquote>





	In the Manner of Ulysses

**Author's Note:**

> \- Set immediately after the last scenes of _A Game of Shadows_ , evidently. 
> 
> \- The spelling variant of "abominable" is a deliberate choice

Mary insisted the postman was the regular chap, blue eyes, ridiculous moustache and everything. John almost couldn't believe it, and his wife's call of "For heaven's sake, John, what is the matter?" followed him down the stairs to the door as his feet took him there nearly on their own accord. 

Which meant he stood just out of the doorframe looking up and down the street when the _shriek_ echoes out from the upstairs, followed by the crash of something breaking. 

It stood perhaps indicative of certain influences present in their marriage that John felt secure in split-second interpretations of his wife's screams and shrieks; as such, in that frozen second that must always follow a scream, wherein one asks oneself (however foolish the question) whether one has really heard it, John's mind took the opportunity to remind him that _that_ had been Mary's shriek, not of fear, but of complete and absolute rage. 

His feet still sent him running back into the house and up the stairs, nearly knocking Sally flat as he did so; he didn't hear her words of apology, partially over his own rushing blood and hope, but mostly because Mary had followed the post-shriek pause for breath with a stream of invective that would have at least astonished the sergeants in John's old regiment, if only because it came out of the mouth of a well-bred woman. 

"You _bastard_ ," she shouted as John took the stairs two at a time, ignoring the protests of his bad knee, Sally at his heels. "You utterly ungrateful selfish thoughtless _bastard_ son of a mongrel and a French whore how dare you, how _dare_ you, you abhominable piece of - " 

"Mary," John interrupted her, seeing as at this volume it was at least _possible_ a neighbour or passer-by might hear, and she wouldn't like to think they had later. It came out remarkably calm and gentle and that could only be called a wonder, because he more or less felt as if someone had dropped a great deal of explosives on his head. And he knew what that felt like, more or less, so he had a comparison. 

" - excrement," she finished, one accusing finger shaking as she pointed it at the figure who stood, dripping and blinking, in front of her, "you, you - " and then she lapsed into Latin at a pace so rapid John found it more or less impossible to follow, but which at least one phrase of made Holmes actually look affronted. 

Because it was Holmes, Sherlock Holmes, alive and well except for the tea that drenched his face and front and the pile of broken pottery before and behind him. He wore a ridiculous suit in the pattern, John noted, of the arm-chair in John's own study. Camouflage, he recalled distantly. Before the Moriarty affair, Holmes had been working on methods of urban camouflage. The bastard. 

The utter brilliant mad bastard. 

Much like a scroll uncurling itself in his mind, John Watson could see how Holmes had meant this to go. He had _meant_ for Watson to receive the breathing device. He'd meant to leave some little indication in Watson's office that would further secure Watson's suspicions. And then he'd meant to stage a reappearance somewhere public and astonishing - possibly somewhere in Brighton. It would be typically, classically and infuriatingly Sherlock Holmes. 

Instead apparently Mary had ruined that all for him by appearing when he had not expected her and, apparently, thrown the tea in her cup in his face and then, not satisfied by this echo of previous encounters, had hurled cup and saucer at him, cup at his - yes, cup at his head, missing, and saucer to the heart, which had bounced off and broken on the floor. 

This, Watson thought, was only to the good, as if Holmes had not looked quite so comically put upon - hand resting lightly where the saucer must have hit him, face and the front of his hair dripping, camouflage attire soaked at the collar and spattered down the torso - Watson might just have strangled the fucking bastard. 

And given how unbelievably, painfully and wholly overjoyed he was to see the man alive, would have been a criminal waste. 

Mary delivered a final snapping Roman comment and then snapped in English, "Sally, find this . . . man a towel so he stops dripping in my hallway. I will be back," she said as if it were a threat, as their maid bobbed a terrified curtsey and then fled, "presently." 

Then she walked away with a stride that ought to have come with the echoing crack of boot-heels on stone, marble or wood, except that being take with slippered feet on carpet it made no noise at all, leaving John Watson with Sherlock Holmes. 

Who favoured Watson's wife with a brief jaundiced look as she left before turning to Watson as if none of the foregoing had happened at all and said, "Watson! Wonderful to see you." 

Part of Watson briefly fantasized about breaking Holmes' nose - and he could, he knew that - before electing not to give him the satisfaction. Instead, he strove to imitate his friend's tone and said, "It's rather good to see you too, old boy. You've been rather remiss in your correspondence lately." 

It felt deeply satisfying to see the minute details of expression that told him that had struck it's intended target, as Holmes folded his hands behind his back and said, "Ah. Yes. Well. Things . . .came up." 

Memories of funeral words and crushing guilt and endless evenings caught in the stinking grey of grief with Mary's worry only another weight marched themselves across the back of Watson's mind, with the biting edges of a sword held in salute. Watson's eyes prickled with the sensation familiar from far too long in Afghanistan; he looked down and cleared his throat. When he glanced up again, Holmes had taken a step forward and cleared his own throat. "Watson," he said, in far too familiar a tone, "I - " 

Watson took the final step forward and caught Holmes around the shoulders. The embrace was rough, deliberately, almost more punitive than affectionate, but it was returned. 

"Shut up," Watson said, more or less in Holmes' ear. "You're bloody awful at apologizing." 

"Yes, well," Holmes replied, "we all must have some minor character flaws." Watson let him go and now Holmes' face had turned serious, grave, as he said, "But I can explain." 

"How wonderful," Mary's voice said sharply, as she emerged from a doorway and came to join them. She carried a bundle of clothing which she thrust at Holmes, just as Sally came darting up the stairs with a towel - not one of the best ones. "I'm sure your story will make the miles to Brighton just _fly_ past. Take these, go and stop dripping on my carpets and get cleaned up and changed while John finishes packing. Then you can explain everything as we go, and then," she finished, not giving any ground to Holmes' somewhat hostile stare, "we can have _words_." 

Holmes did take the clothes. "Have you left any?" he asked acidly. 

"I've only used half my Latin and not yet touched my Greek," Mary replied, in tones of absolute ice. "I'm sure I can find many." 

"How excellent," Holmes retorted. "If your Greek is as rusty as your Latin, you could use the practice. Now, if _someone_ would be so kind as to lead me to a chamber wherein I may attempt to clean up, instead of merely stripping to the skin here in the hall - ?" 

As Sally led him away, Mary took hold of John's hand and pulled him towards their room. 

He was not, John knew, thinking properly at all. Someone appeared to have wrapped his mind in cotton wool, a sensation that was, like the pricking of things unshed, not unfamiliar. Once in their room, he began to pack mechanically, until Mary's hand on his wrist made him pause. 

He looked up, and his wife said, "I'm furious on your behalf." She slid her fingers between his and added, "And because you won't be. You'll forgive him without even thinking hard about it." She leaned forward and kissed his cheek. Then she sighed. "I'll forgive him too," she said, grudgingly. "But I'll give him Hell first." 

John squeezed her hand, struck again by how much he loved her, and how lucky he was, and also - he tried to gather his wits but all he managed was to say, "Mary, he's not dead," and she smiled and kissed his other cheek. 

"I know," she said. Then her expression turned slightly sour and she added, "And he's even coming with us to Brighton, and it's my own doing." 

At that, John could only catch her face in his hands, kiss her, and then laugh. And if it was the kind of laughter that came a close cousin to being something else entirely, Mary wouldn't say anything of it.


End file.
